Their clothes had been shredded. Their bloated faces had turned purple blue.
“I know him,” Mariam said, “the one on the left.”
A young woman in front of Mariam turned around and said it was Najibullah. The other man was his brother.
Mariam remembered Najibullah's plump, mustachioed face, beaming from billboards and storefront windows during the Soviet years.
She would later hear that the Taliban had dragged Najibullah from his sanctuary at the UN headquarters near Darulaman Palace.
That they had tortured him for hours, then tied his legs to a truck and dragged his lifeless body through the streets.
“He killed many, many Muslims!” the young Talib was shouting through the loudspeaker.
He spoke Farsi with a Pashto accent, then would switch to Pashto.
He punctuated his words by pointing to the corpses with his weapon.
“His crimes are known to everybody. He was a communist and a kafir. This is what we do with infidels who commit crimes against Islam!”
Rasheed was smirking. In Mariam's arms, Aziza began to cry. The following day, Kabul was overrun by trucks.
In Khair khana, in Shar-e-Nau, in Karteh Parwan, in Wazir Akbar Khan and Taimani, red Toyota trucks weaved through the streets.
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